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Fig jumped down and followed him, meowing again.
“No one likes a know-it-all, Fig.”
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, Zoey sat on the couch as she scrolled through Instagram. There were a few people from high school who were posting photos of things they’d already bought for their dorm rooms. Every photo included pillows. For a reason she had yet to suss out, moving into a dorm room involved bringing a mountain of pillows with you. Zoey had her college list, which she’d been adding to all year with each new correspondence from school and each new article she read about what she’d need. She would have to start buying stuff soon. She had a countdown on her phone, marking how much time she had before she moved into her dorm. She already planned to come back here as often as possible. Every weekend, if she could. When asked about home, she could imagine herself saying, “Oh, I live on Mallow Island.” Not Tulsa.
Zoey paused in her scroll. Her stepmother had posted photos of Zoey’s old bedroom—her burgeoning new craft room, Wonderland. The carpet had been torn out and pale hardwood flooring had been installed. The walls had been painted a soft aqua, and abovethe windows overlooking the garageLIVE YOUR BEST LIFEhad been stenciled in fine gold lettering. One of the photos showed Tina on a stepladder at the windows, a tiny brush in her hand. She was in full makeup and her hair was piled high on her head. She was wearing capri overalls and a crisp white button-down shirt with blue pinstripes. She knew exactly the kind of person she wanted to portray on social media. And Zoey would give her this—in real life she was just as concerned with aesthetics as she was online. She liked things to be pretty. She shared that trait with Zoey’s father. But unlike him, she knew how to actually create pretty things, and not just collect them. She’d taken the large but oddly decorated home Alrick had bought when he and Paloma and baby Zoey had moved to Tulsa, a home that had been full of dark antiques Alrick had bought because he’d thought they made him seem important, and she’d turned it into a true showplace. Tina probably really did do that stencil herself. But certainly not in those clothes. Those were bought just for the photo.
Her bedroom looked so different. Zoey studied it carefully, realizing that what bothered her the most was that it lookedbetter.She remembered her white walls and the scuffed blue bedroom set she’d had since she was seven and the dark curtains that were always drawn because the way the sun angled into the room made it the hottest on the second floor. Tina had wanted to paint the walls and take out the carpeting while it had been Zoey’s room. And Zoey had known how much she’d wanted it, which was the very reason she’d never let her touch it.
Zoey wondered if her family imagined her living someplace just as depressing now. They probably did. They probably assumed that she had taken her quiet, unpretty, bookish life with her and was even now holed up in a dark room, reading—no friends, no social life.
Zoey lifted her phone to take some photos of her studio to show them just how magical it was, but then stopped. Some of her clothes were still in boxes, there were books everywhere, and the sink had dishes she hadn’t put in the dishwasher yet because she kept forgetting to buy dishwasher pods.
There was a knock on her balcony doors and she gave a start. She looked up to find Charlotte standing there, that peculiar pink Mallow Island morning sunlight behind her. Instead of taking a photo of the studio, Zoey snapped a photo of her. She imagined posting it with the captionMy creative friend Charlotte. She does henna, drives a scooter, and collects witch balls.She wouldn’t, of course, because she remembered Charlotte saying she didn’t want her photo online. But Zoey liked the idea of having it on her phone, maybe to show people at college if they asked about her life on Mallow Island.
“I saw that your doors were open,” Charlotte said. She was wearing her officialGOOD GOLLY, MISS TROLLEYT-shirt. “I just wanted to say bye.”
Zoey lowered her phone. She had almost forgotten that this was Charlotte’s first day at the trolley tours. Her heart sank slightly at the reminder, but she said, “Good luck. Thanks for all your help this week with Lizbeth’s place.”
“I should be the one thanking you.”
“Me? Why?”
Charlotte looked embarrassed. “It was just something I needed. I didn’t think I was going to miss it, but I am. Not the smell. I’m definitely not going to miss the smell.”
Zoey got up to join Charlotte on the balcony, which was still wet from last night’s storm. Below them in the garden, the della- wisps were engaging in their morning ritual of arguing loudly about absolutely nothing. Pigeon had wanted out very early to join them.“I think I’ll have it finished today. Frasier said eventually there’ll be a crew coming in to tear out the drywall and gut the kitchen and bathroom.”
“Then, unless Lizbeth hid something in the walls, I don’t think Roscoe Avanger is going to get the story he wants.”
Zoey sighed as she looked out over the garden. “It was fun to think about.”
“Maybe some stories aren’t meant to be told,” Charlotte said.
That had been exactly what Frasier had said. But Zoey was uneasy with the thought of untold stories. What happens to them? Where do they go? If you never share your stories with at least one other person, does that mean they weren’t real, that they never really existed?
Mac’s door opened and they both watched him walk out backward. When he turned, he immediately lifted a hand to wave to them, as if he’d seen them before he’d come out. His red hair, which was usually combed and gelled, was falling over his forehead sleepily. He walked to the base of Zoey’s staircase. “I’m glad I caught you before you left, Charlotte. Thank you for the witch ball.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Charlotte called down to him. “It’s the least I could do.”
“She gave you a witch ball, too?” Zoey asked. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
“They are. But I need to confess that it broke last night. I don’t know how it happened. I walked away andbam.” He lifted his hands, palms up, and flexed his fingers like he was releasing magic sparks. “It just shattered.”
“Don’t worry. I have another,” Charlotte said, walking down the steps. “Wait here and I’ll get it.”
“No, you don’t have to do that,” he said, clearly flustered. “I justdidn’t want you to think I didn’t like it.” Mac had such an easy confidence, one that matched his larger-than-life size, around everyone Zoey had ever seen him interact with. Everyone, that is, except Charlotte. With her, Mac reminded Zoey of an elephant encountering a bumblebee. Charlotte seemed such an unknown entity to him that his reaction to her was sometimes a curiousWhat is this thing?and sometimes a panickedWHATISTHIS THING!And in true bumblebee fashion, Charlotte seemed to have no idea as she buzzed along, trying to mind her own business.
Charlotte waved away his concern. “I insist. I owe you.” She headed to her condo, unlocked it, and disappeared inside.
Zoey, who had followed Charlotte down the steps, looked at Mac strangely. She saw now that the reason his hair was weighted down around his forehead and ears was because it had some sort of powder in it. “You have,” she pointed to his head, “something in your hair.”
A flash of alarm passed over his features before he caught it and smiled. “It’s just cornmeal. Chef’s hazard.”
Although she desperately wanted to know how that much ended up in his hair, as if he’d plunged headfirst into a vat of it, she resisted. What did she know about cooking? “When Charlotte and I took the trolley tour yesterday, we drove by the Mallow Island Resort Hotel. It’s a beautiful place.”
“They offer walking tours called Butterfly Walks in the front garden. You should take one,” he said as Charlotte came back out.
